Page 46 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
“Maybe it wasn’therthey were afraid of,” I whispered. “Maybe it was the child. The baby was proof.”
He frowned. “Proof of what, though? Unless someone had the means to verify it?—”
“She could have claimed anything,” I murmured, the pen stalling in my hand. “Without letters or witnesses, it’s her word against his.”
“And no one would believe her.”
I looked up, frustration burning beneath my skin. “Then why kill her? Why risk it at all?”
He exhaled—slow, hard, as if forcing something heavy from his chest. “That’s the part I can’t let go. Someone was afraid—afraid enough to silence her. Either Elsie knew too much . . . or someone had too much to lose.”
We sat in silence, the air between us thick with unspoken questions, sharp-edged and unfinished.
“Why did she go, Steele?” I asked softly. “She was frightened enough to run away. Why would she leave the safety of St. Agnes? Why go out into the night to meet someone?”
“Because the person she was meeting wasn’t the one she’d run from,” he said quietly. “It was someone she trusted. Someone who’d helped her.”
I drew in a breath. “A woman. It had to be. Elsie wouldn’t trust a man—not after what she overheard.”
He gave a grim nod. “So there was a woman in that household. She wrote the note that lured Elsie to her death.”
I dropped my pen, the soft clatter sounding louder than it should have in the quiet room. “So many suppositions,” I said sharply. “So many guesses. But we’re no closer to knowing who actually killed her.”
Steele didn’t flinch at the edge in my voice. He didn’t retreat. Instead, he leaned in slightly, his tone quiet but steady. “It’s only been two days, Rosalynd. I know it feels longer. But the inquest hasn’t even been held yet.”
I let out a breath, sharp and unsatisfied. “She’s still lying in the mortuary, and all we have is a single, wretched note.”
He held my gaze. “Then we follow it. The paper wasn’t torn from a book or scrap. It was proper stationery. Monogrammed. Someone who cared about appearances ordered it.”
I nodded. “We’ll go to the stationers. Ask the right questions. Tomorrow. You and I. Together.”
He didn’t smile, not exactly, but something softened in his expression, as if his agreement didn’t need to be spoken aloud.
Chapter
Eighteen
INK AND INTENTIONS
The carriage bearing my crest pulled up before Wigmore & Sons. I’d chosen it not for vanity but to make a point. I wanted the shopkeeper to know exactly who he was dealing with the moment I stepped through the door. Subtlety had its uses, but so did authority. And nothing conveyed authority quite like a carriage with a coronet on the door.
What I hadn’t considered was the rest of the street.
As the footman swung open the door, I caught the sound of feminine voices and light laughter, the unmistakable hum of society on the move. The milliner’s two doors down had just let out a cluster of ladies with sharp eyes and sharper tongues. One froze mid-step. Another clutched her bonnet like it might take flight. Whispers began before I’d even offered Rosalynd my hand.
She took my arm and descended gracefully, utterly unbothered by the stares gathering around us. At least on the surface.
“If anyone asks,” she murmured as we approached the door, “I was selecting ink for my petitions.”
I nodded. “Naturally.”
The bell above the shop door rang a crisp chime as we stepped inside.
Wigmore & Sons was a temple of order. Shelves rose floor to ceiling, lined with cream, dove grey, and ivory stationery, some edged in gilt, others pressed with fine patterns. Inkwells, quills, and sealing wax sat in gleaming rows, untouched and intimidating. The scent of lavender, India ink, and beeswax mingled with the hushed air of reverence.
Behind the counter stood a man who looked as if he’d been shelved there himself. Tall and spare, with a face like a lemon left too long in the bowl, his cuffs stiff as razors, and spectacles perched like judgment on the tip of his nose. He clasped his hands before him as though unsure whether we were customers or a potential plague.
“May I assist you?” he asked, tone sour enough to curdle cream.
